


B-List Lust

by neversaydie



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blow Jobs, Bouncer Steve, Brock is a cheesy fucker, Bucky is Done With This Shit, Creep Brock, Dirty Talk, Lapdance, M/M, Steve and Bucky broke the bed, Stripper Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-19 19:54:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5979178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neversaydie/pseuds/neversaydie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Take Bucky (stripper, done with this shit), Brock (call-me-daddy-sugar), and Steve (bouncer, in love with a stripper). </p><p>Add together and shake well. Add some yellow condoms and terrible dancing, plus bad dirty talk and a dash of violence. </p><p>Serve over ice in a tall glass and hope nobody gets killed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	B-List Lust

"You've got a guy at table five."

"Is it him again?" Bucky sighs heavily when Steve, six-feet-everything of sculpted bouncer that just about everyone wants to climb like a tree, nods. All the dancers at the Red Room have regulars, and call-me-Brock-sugar is Bucky's least favourite. "He still banned from the champagne room?"

"Not for you. Just the girls." Steve squeezes Bucky's arm discreetly behind the bar, hidden from the patrons and the rest of the staff. There are probably rules against dating your co-worker here, and neither of them are inclined to lose their job over it. "Be careful, huh?"

"Don't worry, I've got this guy wrapped around my little finger." Bucky looks Steve in the eye and smiles, less cocky than his usual smirk but a lot more genuine. It convinces Steve that he really is okay with the situation before he heads to his customer, all angles and shadows and smooth, bare muscles in the dim light of the club.

Uniform, as it could be very loosely described, is pretty standard in the Red Room: booty shorts or boxer-briefs in the guy bar, underwear or tiny outfits in the girl bar (Bucky has never understood how someone persuaded Peggy to put on a schoolgirl outfit without getting their fingers broken, but her tips are notoriously amazing). The two bars are in mostly separate rooms, joined by the grandly-titled 'champagne rooms' where dancers can take the customers who pay for private dances. Or whatever else they're paying for, although everything above a lap dance is strictly clandestine as long as the club takes a cut of the proceeds.

Bucky gets a lot of trade, 'straight' guys who want their dick sucked without having to reciprocate or say _no homo_ (more than five or six times), which suits him just fine because guys like Brock are worse. He's pretty popular with creeps, the kind of guys who bring him gifts and try and follow him to his car at the end of the night, but they don't bother him as much as the guys who get rough the minute they get him alone, who act like paying for a blowjob means they don't have to treat him like a person.

Brock can be one of those, hence why he's banned from the girl bar because none of the dancers will have anything to do with him anymore. The creep has a hard-on for Bucky that just won't quit though, and he tips well enough for Bucky to be able to take a night off every few weeks and still pay his rent, so he's willing to put up with some grossness. Especially now he's dating the biggest bouncer in the place and knows he's one word away from putting Brock out on his ass for good.

It's not like Bucky can't take care of himself, he's got almost ten years of MMA training under his belt, but it's always nice to have back-up. Especially back-up that carries a taser. And fucks like a champ. Which is immaterial at work, but still nice to know.

"Hey baby." Bucky purposefully swings his hips as he approaches Brock's table, because guys are too easy. The guy looks up with a smirk, dark eyes roaming shamelessly over Bucky's exposed skin when he stops way too close for normal boundaries. "Where you been hiding?"

"Had some work outta town." Brock sprawls back cockily, glass of whiskey in hand as he cocks his head and beckons Bucky over. Bucky straddles him gracefully, rolling his hips absently to the beat of whatever song is throbbing out heavy bass over the sound system. He's really not much of a dancer but that doesn't exactly matter when he's pretty sure nobody's here for the dancing. "Why, you miss me?"

"You know it. Been hoping you were gonna show up soon." Bucky keeps the slightly-vacant smile on his face that guys tend to like, like he's just waiting for them to decide what to do with him. Brock slides a firm hand up his bare thigh, hot and slightly clammy in the club, and Bucky pulls away just a little. "Rules, baby. Can't touch out here."

"Aw c'mon sugar, just a little…" Brock squeezes Bucky's ass with a leer, which he only tolerates because he knows it's easier to get him in the back rooms when he thinks he's getting something for free. "Yeah. Been thinking about that ass."

"You can do more than think about it out back." Preferably not fuck him this early in the evening, because Brock's not exactly gentle and there's still four hours on his shift, but Bucky will take the wad of cash either way because he's got a new bed to pay off over the next three months.

Steve might have broken the other one by fucking him through it last week. Might as in definitely and broken as in obliterated. They were both fairly drunk and going a lot harder than Bucky would usually attempt on his rickety third-hand furniture, especially considering the wild beast rutting on top of him weighed about a million pounds of solid muscle. They'd ended up finishing on the mattress on the floor, in the ruins of the shattered bedframe that had the downstairs neighbours banging angrily on the ceiling. Bucky had decided to invest in something slightly sturdier this time, considering he's intending this thing with Steve to last for a while.

The reinforced bedframe will take a lot of blowjobs to pay off, but he's pretty sure it's worth the investment.

"You can't wait to get a piece of me, can you?" Brock smirks and spanks Bucky's thigh lightly, encouraging him to get up and downing the rest of his drink before he stands and grabs his hand. "C'mon sweetheart, I'll give you what you want."

Bucky forcibly contains himself and doesn't roll his eyes until Brock is turned away and leading (dragging) him over to the velvet curtain at the door to the champagne rooms. Steve, he's slightly relieved to note, has taken over from Sam at the pay point separating the exclusive area from the rest of the club. He shoots his almost-boyfriend a smile that he turns flirty when Brock turns to look at him.

"Two hundred for VIP access." Steve interrupts as Brock reaches over 'subtly' to grab Bucky's ass again, the disgruntled tone of his voice forcing Bucky to hide a grin. A possessive Steve is a Steve who fucks him like an animal trying to claim a mate, and that's something to look forward to at the end of a long night of playing grab-ass with losers.

Brock scowls and digs out his wallet, muttering about prices going up. He shoves the money at Steve and Bucky takes the opportunity to sneak a peek at how much cash he has on him: definitely enough to make this mortifying experience pay off. It's been a while since Brock's been by and he's probably going on a big blow-out tonight, pun very much intended. Bucky mentally prepares himself for a long, tedious encounter and just hopes Brock has the decency to ply him with alcohol to get through it.

Drinking on the job isn't exactly encouraged, but then neither are poppers and coke and there's plenty of that going on in the dressing rooms and the VIP area. Bucky doesn't know how some of the dancers maintain their habit _and_ pay their rent, he's not about to go Scarface when he's trying to get out of the shithole neighbourhood he lives in. The Red Room security turn a blind eye to substances anyway, as long as nobody's openly dealing, and Bucky figures a little booze is the least he can allow himself to get through an hour of unfiltered call-me-daddy-Brock.

Luckily (for his wallet, unluckily for his sanity), Brock is clearly planning to stretch out this encounter until the bouncers come to kick him out. He sprawls back on the long couch in the classiest back room, black jeans already looking a little tight from where Bucky's standing, and Bucky fetches drinks on his instruction. If he's on the floor then his 'drinks' are paid for like booze but actually contain no alcohol, but back here he allows himself to get just a little fuzzy around the edges as Brock complains about his job and Bucky makes sympathetic noises and rubs his arm like he gives a shit. Most of his time in the back room is spent playing therapist to lonely guys, which always surprises people who think his job is all sex, drugs, and cock.

There's plenty of cock, of course, but most of it is Steve's these days.

After at least thirty minutes of Brock's whining (he's clearly in love with some guy called Jack, Bucky gathers, but is way too _no homo_ to admit it or do anything about it), he tips his beer bottle into Bucky's mouth and watches him swallow the contents in one with hungry eyes. This is obviously the start of the main event (Brock has a thing about bottles, Bucky's had more unpleasant experiences than drinking his beer before), so Bucky makes a show of it, letting a drop of beer slip down his chin and taking the neck of the bottle far deeper into his mouth than he needs to. Brock stifles a groan at the sight and tosses the bottle away, grabbing the back of Bucky's neck roughly and pulling him into a kiss.

There's no financial benefit to drawing this out, so Bucky starts rubbing Brock through his jeans and trying to work him up as soon as he can feasibly act like he's not trying to rush through this encounter. Brock clearly doesn't mind being hurried, his ego interpreting the eagerness as Bucky being desperate to get to his dick, and within five minutes he's hard, out of his pants, and shoving Bucky unceremoniously to kneel on the floor between his spread thighs.

It takes about three short minutes of getting his dick sucked for Brock to start with the terrible dirty talk that Bucky has come to associate with insecure guys who are seriously shitty in bed. Somehow he only finds it hot when Steve talks dirty to him, but maybe that's nothing to do with the dirty talk and everything to do with the mouth it's coming out of.

"Yeah, baby. Swallow that big cock."

Bucky wonders if it's possible to look into the camera like he's on The Office with a dick in his mouth. Some guys watch _way_ too much porn, and the shitty dirty talk is the fastest way to make him go limp. Not that he's hard with Brock's sweaty dick on his tongue anyway, the guy could've at least showered after work. He gets sweatier and rougher the longer this blowjob goes on, and it's not exactly a pleasant experience to be on the receiving end.

"Fuck, yeah. Swallow it." Brock tangles his hand roughly in Bucky's hair and pushes his head down. Bucky's not exactly a blowjob novice but the movement surprises him and he chokes at suddenly having the back of his throat rammed, which only drags a low groan from deep in Brock's chest and spurs him on. He holds Bucky down by the hair, cock in his throat cutting off his air and sending a momentary spark of panic through his gut. "Choke on it, bitch. You love it, fuckin' look at you."

Bucky does choke on it, not exaggerating this time, and is relieved when Brock finally lets him pull back enough to breathe properly. He's been down here for what feels like _forever_ and is definitely nearing regular cumshot time because his jaw is starting to ache. That means it's time to break out all his tricks and get Brock coming (hopefully on his chest, maybe on his face, but the guy is on some kind of high-protein paleo diet shit and his jizz tastes like Satan's ball sweat) as soon as possible.

Brock, however, clearly has other plans.

"Tell me how much you love it." He pulls Bucky up by the hair and uses his other hand to smack Bucky's cheek with his cock. Bucky fights the urge to roll his eyes so hard they never return from the back of his head. "Tell me you love daddy's cock."

"I love your cock, daddy." He tries very hard to sound breathless and turned on, hoping that Natasha isn't watching the security camera feed in the back and laughing her ass off at him. It wouldn't be the first time. "Please let me suck it."

"I know that's not what you really want, baby." Brock drags Bucky up (still by the _hair_ , he doesn't want to go bald by thirty _thanks_ ) and crushes his mouth in a bruising kiss. He interprets Bucky's whimper (because his lips are fucking raw and he needs chapstick yesterday at this point) as pleasure instead of pain, and pulls back to leer at him with a glint in his eye. "You want this big cock in your tight little hole, don't you? Missed me splitting you open, huh?"

Really, really not. Brock's dick is maybe average, a little thick for his size, and Bucky seriously has no intention of getting fucked by a guy who doesn't know what adequate prep means unless he has to. But he did just have sex with Steve this morning so it might not be such a literal pain in the ass as usual, and it's not like he really has a choice if he wants to get paid for the throat-bruising blowjob he just gave. And he really wants to get paid, because Brock's going to notice if he swipes his wallet more than once.

"It's five hundred if you wanna fuck me." He makes sure Brock knows that up front, although biting gently on his earlobe probably lessens the serious financial notification. "I missed your cock, daddy."

"I know you did, sugar." Brock squeezes Bucky's ass roughly and pushes him away from the octopus impression he's doing on top of his trade right now. "Get yourself ready, 'cause I'm going in in five minutes or less."

Bucky doesn't take that lightly, because Brock's held him down and fucked him almost dry before and it's the closest he's ever come to calling the cops (which is _taboo_ at the club, for obvious reasons). He quickly yanks open the drawer hidden under the drinks table, grabbing lube and condoms from the 'secret' stash (so the club can continue to pretend it doesn't know about its dancers turning tricks), and pulls his briefs off before he kneels up on the couch. He makes sure Brock has a good view of his ass before he sticks two lubed fingers inside himself with only a little pause, figuring that maybe the show will give him a little more time to prep.

"Fuckin' slut, whose dick you been riding while I was outta town?" The hasty prep backfires, as Brock spanks his ass cheek and makes Bucky let out an involuntary grunt of discomfort. He grabs Bucky's wrist and pulls his hand away from his ass which draws out another wince. "Bend over."

"Condom, baby." Bucky can see he's not wearing one with a glance over his shoulder. The condoms in here are bright yellow, which is faintly ridiculous but means it's easy to tell if they're being used in the dim light, and Brock's spit-slick cock is obviously bare.

Brock's expression twists into something nasty for a split second before he's grabbing Bucky by the already-sore back of his neck and forcing him to bend over the back of the couch, strained muscles screaming in protest. Bucky's cheek scrapes against the cheap material in a way that's _definitely_ going to leave rug burn and he shoots an extremely _done_ look at the security camera because he's not about to deal with this shit gracefully. He is _not_ about to get rawed by a creep just for five hundred bucks.

Maybe a year ago, yeah, he'd have just bent over and taken it and had panic attacks about the HIV test later. But since he's been seeing Steve, since he got out of his sugar-baby shit and decided he was worth basic human respect, Bucky actually gives more of a crap about himself and doesn't do that high-risk, self-destructive stuff anymore.

He's had enough Brocks to last a lifetime, he's not dealing with any more.

"You need to put on a condom." Bucky stills under Brock's bruising hands, shoving away the clench of involuntary panic in his stomach when one hand lets him go and reaches back. To get a condom or steady himself as he pushes in, Bucky can't see. It's the not knowing that sparks the fear, threatens to switch his brain off dangerously. "Brock."

"Shut up. Fuckin' bitch, charge me five hundred bucks and try to tell me how I can fuck you. Teasing me like you're in charge." Brock digs his bitten-down nails into Bucky's neck and shoves his face further into the couch cushions. Bucky can hardly breathe with the weight on him and he's _this close_ to losing it. "Shut the fuck up. You'd better say 'thank you daddy' when I'm done."

The sudden, sickly pressure of a cock pushing painfully at his unprepared entrance snaps Bucky out of his frozen state. He throws his weight back, leading with his shoulder and getting his elbow up far enough to catch Brock in the side of the head. The blow sends Brock reeling and lets Bucky up so he can twist and grab Brock's wrist, yanking his arm up behind his back and pinning him to the couch. It's oddly satisfying to shove his face into the sweaty cushions, somewhere in the back of Bucky's mind that's not laser-focused with adrenaline.

"I said. Put on. A fucking. Condom." He grits out next to Brock's ear, ignoring the spat-out string of curses that follows as he straightens up and digs his elbow unforgivingly into Brock's back. "Steve!"

Nobody gets loud back here for a reason, because it means the bouncer at the door can hear clearly when someone needs help. Steve crashes into the room in record time, ready to break bones until he sees that Bucky has the situation handled and pauses, looking his (kind of) boyfriend over with barely-concealed worry.

"You okay?" He asks, coming over to grab Brock by the overly-greased hair with as little care as if he's not even in the room with them. Bucky cranes up to kiss him, losing all professionalism in the face of the sheer relief of having Steve _here_.

"I'm good. Take this asshole out and tell Nat he's banned." He shoves Brock off the couch and Steve grabs him up in a headlock, which Brock doesn't try too hard to resist because Steve could lift him clear off the ground if he decided to. "Hold on a sec."

He snatches Brock's wallet out of his back pocket (not bothering to tuck the guy back into his pants, because if he's so determined to keep his dick bare then Bucky's not gonna _argue_ at this point) and opens up the worn leather. There's about eight hundred dollars in cash, which Bucky liberates before slipping the wallet neatly back into the stupidly-tight jeans.

"Fuckin' thief!" Brock tries to kick Bucky, the movement aborted when Steve tightens the arm around his neck and gives him a taste of what it's like to not be able to breathe.

"Services rendered, _daddy_." Bucky smirks and gives him a little wave, which Steve takes as his cue to haul Brock outside, his bitching fading slowly into the background noise of the club as he's carried further away to the exit.

The room is suddenly empty, quiet, and the vacuum of adrenaline leaves Bucky abruptly unsteady on his feet. He grabs one of the full, open beers off the table, downing it in several desperate gulps before he sits down on the couch, running a hand shakily over his face and trying to get back in touch with reality. Nothing happened, he handled the incident and he's _fine_ , so why does he feel like he wants to curl up in a ball and hide for a very long time?

"Buck?" Steve is back quicker than he'd expected, maybe Bucky got lost in his thoughts for a minute or something. His (semi) boyfriend looks concerned, closing the door behind him and crossing the room to cup Bucky's face gently and look him over. He touches the rug burn on his cheek carefully, fingertips cold against the raw skin. "Are you okay? Did he hurt you?"

"Pretty sure I hurt him more." Bucky relaxes into Steve's touch though, lets him check him over and make concerned noises about the bloody crescent nail marks on the sides of his neck, about the swollen split of his lips and the red mark quickly bruising on his ass cheek. "I'm fine."

"Did he… Did he fuck you?" Steve stokes his thumb lightly over Bucky's uninjured cheek, totally sincere and obviously swallowing his feelings to try and put his boyfriend's first in a way that makes Bucky's chest ache. "If he hurt you, I swear—"

"He didn't. I handled it. Could've broken his fucking arm if I felt like it." Bucky meets Steve's eyes and the world around them is suspended for a long, long moment before he leans up and kisses him, bruised lips no longer a pain. He pulls back when he's ready, somehow in pieces and together at the same time. "Fuck me."

"Buck…" Steve looks thrown by the request, but Bucky kisses him again and presses into his familiar bulk, safe and whole against him. It doesn't take long for Steve to figure out that Bucky really wants this, that he needs to have someone he loves right where the potential bad memories are looming. "Are you sure—"

"I don't wanna remember that asshole. I wanna remember you." Bucky twitches a smile, brittle because it's not forced and flirty and everything else it could be to manipulate Steve into doing what he wants. He doesn't want to manipulate anyone right now, he just wants to feel loved. He doesn't feel dirty exactly, but it's looming and he's not going to let the feeling crash over him if he can prevent it. "You okay with that?"

"Yeah, I'm okay with that." Steve cups his hand cautiously over the bruised mess that's the back of Bucky's neck, the light touch grounding him even though he's decided he's fine and doesn't need coddling. It's still nice to be treated with care. "Nat said we can take off if you want to, make up the hours later."

"Sounds good. We've got a bed to break in." Bucky gets waveringly to his feet, the last adrenaline aftershocks still pumping through him and leaving him feeling uncomfortably exposed. Steve is handing him his discarded uniform briefs before he can consider that he's naked, and he tugs them on gratefully. "I, uh, I'm gonna take a shower first."

"How about you take a shower, we fuck or whatever you wanna do, and then I make my famous nachos and we watch Netflix naked?" There's a firm hand steadying Bucky, warm on his arm and not restraining or helping like he can't walk on his own, just steadying and letting him know that Steve is there.

"That's some real boyfriend shit." Bucky snorts, looking away and running a hand through his messed up, pulled out of shape hair so Steve can't see how the idea of intimacy and care hits him harder than he wants it to. It's definitely the situation, that's all, it's making him soft. Steve ducks down and kisses him again, comforting like a hug on a hard day.

"Maybe I wanna be a real boyfriend." He grins when Bucky squints at him judgementally for being particularly cheesy even though it's kind of adorable. "C'mon. We've got legitimate time off, let's go forget about all this shit."

"Yeah." Bucky sweeps his gaze over the discarded beer bottles and lube and the upturned table where Brock had been dragged away, and suppresses a shudder. It's going to be weird to come back to work here, but he's got bills to pay. He can't afford to be affected. "Let's forget."

There will always be Brocks in this industry, but at least now Bucky has Steve to help him stand it. And to choke out any of them who decide to try and fuck with him again. Together, he's pretty sure they can handle anything the night life throws at them. Bright yellow condoms, shitty dirty talk, and all.


End file.
